


Tale As Old As Time

by Knightfalling_for_you



Series: Movie Nights [5]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast, Eobard is a sadistic dick, F/M, Legion of doom - Freeform, Mentions of Jack the Ripper, Movie Night, This one's gonna be longer guys, Who is suprised really?, victorian london
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8937520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knightfalling_for_you/pseuds/Knightfalling_for_you
Summary: "Barely even friends,Then somebody bendsUnexpectedly.Just a little change,Small to say the least.Both a little scared,Neither one prepared . . ."-Beauty and the Beast, 1991





	1. Suiting Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Victorian London isn’t exactly Mick’s idea of a good time. Sure, it’s a filthy, corrupt city, full of bars, opium dens, and crime on every corner. But there’s also the ungodly stench of the streets, the smog in the air . . . what’s he forgetting?

Oh, that’s right. The serial killer on the loose. It’s 1888, Ripper is still slashing up prostitutes whenever he likes, and it doesn’t sit well with Mick.

It’s not the murdering part that gets him, really. It’s the undeserved, gruesome chaos of it. Nate, in one of his history lectures, tells the team a little too much about what Jack the Ripper does to his victims—throats cut, stomachs gutted like a fish, some were even plundered for organs or worse. The information is enough to make Jax lose his dinner, even before the time jump. 

The aberration doesn’t have anything to do with the Ripper, though. It’s something else; someone trying to sell advanced weapons to a terrified police force that will do anything to maintain the appearance of control. It doesn’t take Sherlock to figure out that the culprits are most likely Darhk, Merlyn, and the speedster again.

So, naturally, Mick wants to suit up. He finds her in the fabrication room after they land, waiting for a crimson-colored gown and matching hat to be finished. She’s already dressed in Victorian undergarments (which, unfortunately, leave more to the imagination than their modern-day counterparts, except for her legs, which are fairly exposed). Her hair is fashioned into a similarly conservative updo, with bobby pins jammed in at every inch.

“Give me a hand with this damned thing?” she asks, gesturing to the corset, which is only partially laced up. Mick gives a nod, and she stands in front of him, hands straight at her sides. “Is there any era lacking in ridiculous and painful fashion trends?”

“Pretty sure it’s the one constant in all of time,” he mutters, lacing the ribbon through the holes, slowly, feeling like it’s a job suited to someone with smaller hands (and maybe someone who isn’t a little preoccupied thinking about the almost-kiss that happened earlier). “Let me know if it’s too tight.”

“You’re good, so far,” she says. 

“You know, if you sat this mission out, you wouldn’t have to wear this crap,” he says, trying to ignore the way Amaya squirms when his fingers accidentally brush skin instead of ribbon.

“No chance. Rex’s killer is probably behind the aberration,” she says firmly. “I’m going.”

Mick sighs. “Look, Vix. Forget about the speedster. Even without him, there’s still a man running around London, killing whoever he likes. And no offense, but in this era, he’s probably going to care about offing a . . . a woman like you even less than a prostitute. And Sara probably shouldn’t be going out their either, but she’s the captain.”

“I can defend myself, Mick, totem or not,” she says, fingering the necklace. “And so can Sara, you know that. Have you seen the skirts women wear in this era? She can hide at least twenty knives in one of them.”

“Fine,” Mick replies, finishing the corset with a bow. “Just stay out of trouble, alright?”

“Words I never thought I’d hear from you,” Amaya says, walking over to get her dress from behind a glass case. She slips it on easily, despite the long sleeves and ridiculous bustle. Then she pins the matching hat on her head, and puts on a pair of slippers, although they’re barely visible under the hem of the dress. She actually spins a little when she’s done. “How do I look?” 

“Like _Beauty and the Beast_ , except in red instead of yellow,” he says, instead of what he’s actually thinking, which is _Breathtaking._ Honestly, Amaya’s pulled off every outfit she’s worn since getting on board, regardless of the era (though truth be told, the red dress she wore in the bar fight against the Nazis is probably his favorite).

“The French fairy tale?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No, an animated movie based off that story,” he says. “I used to babysit Sn—a friend of mine’s sister, and she always wanted to rent it. She loved all of it. The music, the characters, the story, but I think her favorite part was always the dress the main character, Belle, wore. It was kind of like the one you’re wearing, only yellow, and the sleeves are a little shorter, but,” He shrugs “It’s got that same princess-y look.”

Amaya gives him a sly grin. “Are you saying I’m a princess, Mick?”

“Would explain why you’re such a royal pain,” he shoots back, but his heart’s not really in the insult and she’s still smiling. She takes a step forward, pointing at the black tie that came with his Victorian-era suit (he accepted almost the entire outfit, with the exception of a top hat).

“You’ve got the cravat wrong,” she says, undoing the knot. Mick stiffens a little, having her so close. “It needs to be narrower around the neck and wider down the front.”

“Mhm,” is all Mick says, as Amaya carefully ties the cloth around his neck. Months ago, he’d have been worried that she’d try to strangle him with it. But now, that’s not what he thinks she has in mind (or what’s in his). Right now, he’s a little too preoccupied with how close she is, her hands just inches away from his neck, her breath mixing with his, everything just a heartbeat away and for the taking.

And for a thief, the taking part’s supposed to be easy. He should be able to lean forward, just like that, and kiss Amaya with no problem. Mick’s used to taking what he wants, sure, but in this case, it’s different. Does he want to move forward, to feel her lips on his? Of course he does. But that’s not all he wants.

Mick wants her to reciprocate. He wants her to kiss him back, and not just see it as a joke or a one-time thing. He wants to know that this . . . thing between them hasn’t just been imagined on his part, and that it won’t fall apart with something as simple as a kiss.

He decides to make a compromise between action and inaction. He leans forward, about to kiss her on the cheek, when Amaya reacts, turning so her lips are directly over his, drawing him closer, her hand wrapped tight around his tie. It doesn’t take long for him to get overwhelmed, noticing just how wonderful it tastes and feels to have her so close. He grips her arms tightly, pressing her against the wall. She removes his lips from his, and for a beat, he’s disappointed, before she makes her way from his throat to his jaw, kissing every inch of skin, going further up, even to his ear.

She pulls back to look at him, pupils dilated and breathing heavy. It takes him all of one second to lean forward and kiss her again, savoring every bit of it until he lets go. She relaxes a little, releasing his tie, and wraps her arms around him, turning it into a hug. Mick wonders if she can feel his heart, beating like a jackhammer.

After a few minutes, he lets go of her, and they step apart. 

“We should get to the bridge,” he says, checking his watch. “They’re going to be calling for us any second.”

“Yeah,” she replies, heading for the door. Then she turns to look at him. “But you’re showing me _Beauty and the Beast_ later.”

“Okay,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Besides, I might need help with my tie again.”

Amaya gives him a smile, reaching for his hand. “I’d be more than happy to help.” And with that, they head to meet up with the rest of team. _Somehow,_ Mick thinks, _things are looking up. Against all odds._

So, naturally, it takes all of five minutes for the mission to go to shit.


	2. Eobard is a dick. That's it, that's the chapter title.

The plan, like most, starts out simple. Have Nate go to police headquarters, disguised as a Scotland Yard agent, with a miniaturized Ray in tow. While they snoop around to see who’s brokering a deal with the cops, Amaya and Mick will go undercover in the seedier parts of town, trying to find any info they can on the future-tech smugglers. Sara will be coordinating from the ship, along with Jax and Stein, who will serve as backup if need be.

Mick’s not exactly pleased to be leaving his heat gun on the ship, but it’s not easy to hide on his person and doesn’t blend in with the time period at all. He settles for a handgun, also passing one to Amaya, who slips it into her handbag. They also have to take communicators and ingestible translators in order to disguise their American accents (Ray and Nate also take them, despite Ray claiming that he can do a spot-on impression of the Eleventh Doctor). 

The mission is supposed to be recon-only, but, per the usual, something goes wrong. Or, to be more accurate, everything goes wrong. Damien Darhk is waiting in the police station when Nate arrives. And when he tries his Scotland Yard bit, Darhk (who’s actually posing as an agent himself) calls Nate out. In minutes, he’s got Nate handcuffed and knocked out before he can so much as steel up. 

And Ray? He’s fine at first, until Darhk pulls out an EMP generator and knocks out the atom suit’s power source so Ray’s stuck being the size of an ant, with no weapons and no flight capabilities. It’s a dangerous state in the best of times, and being stuck in one of the most dangerous eras in London’s history only makes it worse. It’s almost a good thing that Darhk traps Ray in a jar before he can be trampled by a horse or a runaway pickpocket.

Meanwhile, Mick’s in a dive called “The Badger’s Den”. He’s careful to keep a close eye on Amaya, especially with all the yellow-toothed characters in the bar leering at her like she’s a ribeye steak and they haven’t eaten in days. Mick knows, because he’s been in their place before.

He and Amaya don’t say much on the way to the pub or when they’re inside. Mick figures she wants to focus on the mission and since he doesn’t want to have any heartfelt discussions with the rest of the crew listening in, that makes silence the logical result (even if it doesn’t feel right). So he waits, taking a sip of cheap whiskey that burns his throat, but only for a second, like the tiniest flame that goes out with the tiniest breath.

Mick asks the bartender, Jim, if he knows of any new players in town. Jim points him and Amaya to a warehouse downtown that recently got bought out by a few new names (which aren’t hard to guess). When they visit the place, the speedster’s already there, a devil’s smile on his face. When Mick tries to approach him, he darts away, only to come hurtling back with enough force to send Mick to the ground, wondering how many bones he broke this time.

Amaya fares a little better, but there’s not an animal alive that’s fast enough to stop her enemy. In seconds, the speedster has a hand around her throat.

“Remove the totem,” he hisses. She does so, slowly, and tosses it to the ground. He grins, slipping a syringe out of his pocket and stabbing her in the side with it. Amaya falls to the ground like a rag doll. Then the speedster darts over to Mick, stooping down to look him in the eye, before forcing the same needle into his arm. Mick tries to respond, but he can barely move, and the drug shuts down his system fast. As his eyelids close and everything fades to black, the last thing he hears is:

“You should be used to losing this sort of fight by now.”

. . .

Mick awakes to the familiar sight of a cell. The walls are covered with mold and filth, while cockroaches scurry across the floor. The bars cast thin shadows across the room. Mick’s lying on the floor, both arms chained to the wall. No bed, no food, not even a chamber pot.

Not the worst spot Mick’s ever been in, but definitely far from the best.

“Welcome back, Mr. Rory,” a voice calls, as the speedster steps out of the shadows, clapping his hands. He’s dressed in a classic black Victorian suit, with a bright red tie and a golden pocket watch. He pulls it out now, checking the time, before closing it with a loud _snap!_ “It’s been . . . six hours.” 

Mick can already tell this guy’s a showman, like Snart. He snorts. “Wake me up when it’s time for breakfast.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” the man says, pulling up a chair to sit in.

“So what do I call you?” Mick mutters. “Speedy? The Yellow Streak? Knock-off Flash?”

The man’s lip curls at the last name. “Hardly. You can call me . . . Thawne. Honestly, I’m disappointed that Stein, at least, hasn’t figured it out by now. Perhaps Barry didn’t mention that I’m back.”

Mick sighs. “Lemme guess. This one of those ‘Flashpoint’ things?”

Thawne lets out a harsh laugh that echoes throughout the room. “You could say that. I had to fix Barry’s screw-up. The timeline requires that I exist, so here I am—”

“Trying fuck it up anyway,” Mick growls. Thawne shrugs, as if to say _Duh._

“Tell me, Mr. Rory, if there was one thing about your life you could go back and stop, one change that would fix all your problems, or one person you could eliminate to make it all go away, wouldn’t you take that chance? Say, for instance, if you and your partner never got on that time ship.”

_No Chronos. No Occulus. None of this shit._ Mick narrows his eyes, trying to block out the tempting thoughts. “How’d you know he was part of the team?”

Thawne simply smiles. “Even if all of you hadn’t left trails throughout history, Dr. Palmer did use the cold gun in one of the fights at the White House, which was a bit of a tip-off. See, now matter what timeline you’re in, there’s one constant about Leonard Snart: he’d never give up that gun willingly. I take it he died on this fool’s crusade?” Mick doesn’t answer. “Pity.”

“What’re you getting at?” Mick snarls. It’s bad watching the team act like Snart was never there, hearing how they skirt around using his name. But hearing this man talk about him like he knows Leonard? That’s even worse. 

“My point is, preserving the timeline hasn’t helped any of you out in the past.” He stands up, pressing his face against the bars. “And it’s not going to help your future, either.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” _Don’t let him into your head. He’s just trying to bring you around to his crazy way of thinking._

“Observe.” The man pushes back his sleeve to reveal a futuristic looking watch. “Show me the file on Mari McCabe.” The watch projects a Detroit Gazette article over the wall. The headline reads “VIXEN SINKS HER CLAWS INTO CRIME”. There’s a picture underneath of a young African-American woman dressed in a yellow and black suit, similar to Amaya’s, with the same totem around her neck. Her cropped hair is a dark brown. The date on the file reads 12/22/16.

“Meet Mari McCabe,” Thawne says with a wicked grin. “Heir to your friend’s Anansi totem and her moniker as well. She also happens to be her granddaughter. And do you want to know what,  _Mick_? Even before the timeline changed, she existed. She existed even before you got on that timeship and decided to save the world. And do you know why? _Because she’s not your granddaughter._ ”

Thawne lets out a laugh. “I’ve seen how you look at her, the original Vixen. The way you helped her try to trap me, when you could’ve just run away and saved yourself—something you would normally have _no_ trouble doing. The hardened crook falls for the by-the-book hero. Oh, it’s like something out of a movie.” 

He leans forward even further. “But you’ll never end up with her. Sure, Rex Tyler is dead, but she’ll find someone else, some hero for her to look up to and admire. And you? You’re nothing but a footnote in history. The dimwitted sidekick to a criminal mastermind that might’ve taken over Central City if he hadn’t tried to go and play the hero.”

“Oh, I’m not going to argue with most of that,” Mick mutters, standing to his feet. “But dimwitted?” 

He twists his wrists, bracing himself for the pain that comes as he dislocates the bones and slips out of his chains. He swings them forward, striking Thawne across the face. 

“Hardly.”


	3. Chapter 3

Thawne snarls as the blood drips down his face, grabbing the chain in his fist before it falls to the ground. “You’re going to regret—”

But Mick doesn’t find out what he’s going to regret, because before Thawne can finish his threat, he falls to the ground, a smoking hole in the back of his coat. There’s a hole in the doorway from where the fireball was launched, and behind it, Firestorm. 

“Sorry we took so long,” Jax says, reaching through the hole to unlock and open the door. He glances down at Thawne for a brief second, before throwing another fireball at him for good measure. Then he grabs a ring of keys from a nearby hook and unlocks the cell. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Mick mutters, ignoring the searing pain in his wrists as he steps out of the cage. He glances down at Thawne. 

“Leave him,” Jax says. “Sara got to Raymond and Mr. Haywood, but we still have to find Miss Jiwe.” (On second thought, maybe Stein’s doing the talking now.) Firestorm runs out the door, and Mick follows him down an unfamiliar corridor, one just as grimy as the room he left. On the floor lie common London thugs, all bearing scorch marks and groaning. At the end of the hall are two other hallway.

“That’s the way we came,” Jax says, pointing to the left. “But we haven’t checked what’s on the right yet.” So they turn right and walk quickly down the hall, checking every door they find. They’re almost all empty, except for the second to last door on the left. Inside is Merlyn, standing over Amaya, who’s strapped to a table. Her arms are littered with knife wounds, and she’s been stripped off her dress. She’s back to her simple white lace, but now it’s tainted with flecks and splotches of red. 

Before Firestorm can even move, Mick surges forward and grabs a nearby stool. He clocks Merlyn over the head with it (looks like not every League of Assassins member knows how to brawl). The archer falls to the ground with a cry of pain, and it’s satisfying to see him lie there helplessly, despite the fact that now Mick’s knuckles ache, as well as his wrists. He plucks one of Merlyn’s knives from a nearby table, using it to cut Amaya out of her restraints.

“Vix?” he says quietly, looking down at her. Her eyelids are closed, but when he checks her wrist, there’s still a pulse. She’s lost a lot of blood, but Gideon can fix her up. She has to. Mick picks her up off the table, but then stops. “Where’s the totem?”

“Found it,” Jax says, leaning over Merlyn’s unconscious form. “It was in his pocket.”

“Might make a thief outta you yet,” Mick says, as he heads for the door. As they run out of the base and towards the Waverider, he doesn’t focus on the guards that Firestorm has to take out, or the way his legs feel like lead with every step he takes, or even how his wrists feel like they’re about to break. He just keeps his eyes on Amaya, watching her breathe, slowly but surely. 

He doesn’t stop watching, even when she’s back in the medbay being scanned by Gideon, even when the AI has turned her attention to him, telling him to ice his wrists and put them in splints. He mutters about just letting the bones reset naturally, but Gideon insists that if he wants to be up for any strenuous activity later, especially of the combat variety, it’s best if he wears the splints. He gives in, searching through the various cabinets.

“You know, the Mick Rory I knew wouldn’t have run into a trap like that,” an all-too familiar voice says from behind him. He resists the urge to turn and look, hoping that maybe if he ignores the hallucination, it’ll go away. “What’s the matter? Were you _distracted_?”

Mick doesn’t say anything, just pulls open every cabinet and drawer he can find, until he finally spots the shin splints. But as he starts to put them on, Snart appears at his side, wearing his old leather jacket, along with a long-sleeve shirt and black jeans, goggles slung around his neck.

“You’re lucky all you got is a bad wrist or two this time,” the ghost continues, prowling around the medbay. “But the girl . . . not so lucky, huh?” Mick just glares at him as he straps a splint to his left arm, before leaving the medbay.

“Fine, you don’t want to talk about that train wreck of a mission. But maybe it’s because there’s something else on your mind.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mick says, once he’s safe in his room and there’s no one to see him going nuts. 

“Really?” Snart drawls, stretching out the word far longer than necessary. “So you’re not still wondering if what Thawne said is true.” 

“No,” he growls. Snart smirks, leaning against the wall.

“Get a clue, _Mick._ If I’m not real, if I’m only in your brain, then you know I’m right. You want to know if he was lying or not. You might as well ask Gideon. If anyone knows, she would.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mick replies, opening a bottle he stole in the fifties and taking a sip.

“Right. It doesn’t matter that the girl you can’t stop thinking about and snuggling up to might have a future that’s not with you. It doesn’t matter that the one person on this tub who you think cares about you is going to leave you behind one day for someone else, someone who can give her a family, a life outside of all of . . .” Snart gestures around him. “This.”

Mick lets out a sigh. “Gideon?”

“Yes, Mr. Rory?” the AI resonds.

“Is there a Mari McCabe related to Amaya?” he asks, setting the bottle down. 

There’s a brief pause, and then: “Yes. Amaya Jiwe, aka Vixen. Adopted daughter of Chuck and Patty McCabe, biological daughter of Richard Jiwe and his wife—”

Mick cuts her off. “Who’s her grandfather?”

Another pause, this one longer. “There is no record of that information in my databanks.”

Snart lets out a tough whistle. “Ooh, bad luck. But, the speedster did say she existed, even before you decided to join this suicide mission. And, c’mon, Mick. Is that the life you want for yourself? All settled down, with a wife and kids? Stuck in the past?”

“Gideon,” Mick says, softly. “Could . . . could you not tell anyone about this conversation?”

“Which one?” she asks. “The one where you asked me for information on Miss Jiwe’s descendant, or the one you appear to be having with a figment or your imagination?”

It almost doesn't surprise Mick to know that she's been paying attention to these conversations. If Gideon can see what someone's dreaming about, why shouldn't she be able to see what they're thinking or mentally experiencing? “Both.”

“As long as it does not impede the mission and no one asks for that exact information,” Gideon says, and that’ll have to do. Then her tone shifts, sounding more gentle. “Mr. Rory . . . do you remember how Captain Hunter used to say that time wants to happen?”

“Vaguely.”

“It is possible, according to my calculations, that it’s possible that history only exists as we know it because of time travel. As if we were always meant to go back to these times and dates. For instance, if we had not journeyed to Salvation while hiding from the time masters, Martin Stein would never have saved the life of a young H.G. Wells, despite Wells already existing in the timeline.”

“What are you saying?” Mick asks, trying to make sense of the theory.

“I am saying that, while it’s impossible to know this for certain, perhaps . . . perhaps you and Miss Jiwe were always meant to find each other.”


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Amaya notices when she wakes up is a pulse of pain through her arms. As her eyes flutter, she notes that her wounds are wrapped in tight bandages, and she’s hooked up to an IV. She’s still dressed in her ruined lace, the blood permanently scarring the once pure fabric, and she’s lying in the a black patient’s chair in the medbay. Her hands fly to her throat in a panic, but they brush the familiar feel of bone and leather that make up her totem, so Amaya relaxes a bit. There’s no telling what kind of damage Merlyn and his friends would’ve been able to do if they kept it. She sits up, gritting her teeth to stifle a groan as she does so. Then she swings her feet off the chair and stands up slowly, keeping her hand on the wall for balance.

“Gideon?” she asks, her voice hoarse. “Can I pull the IV out of my arm?”

The AI replies. “Yes, your wounds are sufficiently healed and your blood transfusion was successful, so further IV treatment is unnecessary. Although I would suggest rest, hydration, and also pain medication, if you experience severe discomfort.”

“Thanks,” Amaya mutters, removing the tube from underneath a bandage. She does it quickly, before her body can fully process the pain. Then she wraps another bandage around the spot where the tube was inserted. _Getting advice from a computer about injuries I sustained during a torture session with a time traveling assassin._ Amaya snorts. _So this is my life now._

“Something funny?” a familiar voice asks. Amaya turns to see Sara in the doorway. She didn’t hear the assassin enter, but that’s to be expected. Sara’s dressed in a black tank top, jeans, and short brown boots. 

“Not really,” Amaya mutters, over to the sink to get a glass of water. “So. How’d the rest of the mission go?”

It’s Sara’s turn to snort. “Well, Nate and Ray got captured too, so Firestorm worked on the rescue while I piloted the getaway car, so to speak. But on the bright side, Jax and Stein also found the weapons cache and turned it into a giant puddle, so that’s the end of any arms deal with the police. For now, at least.”

Amaya sighs. “But we’re also no closer to catching the speedster and his friends, or finding out what they want.” She takes a gulp of her water before setting the glass back down on the counter.

“I wouldn’t say that. Mick got a name from the speedster. Thawne. Stein thinks it’s Eobard Thawne, an enemy of the Flash born in the year 2150, also known as the Reverse Flash. We called Barry, and it turns out this is just another _marvelous_ side effect of Flashpoint, because Stein said in the previous timeline, Thawne was erased from existence.”

Amaya blinks, sorting through the mess of an explanation. “So Rex is dead because of Barry’s mistake, essentially.” She lets out a sigh. “Now I understand how Cisco feels.”

“Yeah,” Sara murmurs. “I’d be ticked too, but this team has a bad habit of screwing the timeline up, so there’s not much point in assigning blame right now. I mean, if Barry and Thawne were both here and at your mercy, you’d still kill Thawne, right?”

Amaya shoots her a glare. “I wouldn’t kill either of them, but yes, I’d be more inclined to see that Mr. Thawne gets retribution for Rex’s murder.” She pauses for a second. “Did Mick make it out okay?”

Sara raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything about the sudden change of topic. “Yeah, just had to get some wrist splints. He was in his room, last time I checked. He seemed pretty . . . shaken by what Merlyn did to you.”

Amaya wants to ask more. She wants to know if he came to visit her in the medbay, why he didn’t wait for her to wake up, but she can’t ask Sara those questions. It would only breed more questions, and Amaya’s not in the mood to have practically half the team asking about her andMick. So, instead, she just asks: “How long was I unconscious? I blacked out when Merlyn was torturing me.”

Sara sighs. “Eight hours, I think. Look, I know better than anyone that what Merlyn did to you can’t be fixed with just rest and medicine, but if he was questioning you, I need to know—”

“You need to know if he was looking for information and I gave it up,” Amaya finishes. “I get it. To be honest, I don’t think he really knew what he was talking about. He just asked questions about my totem, whether or not I knew anything about the amulets they stole, some magical spear, and star charts. To be honest, I didn’t know a lot about it either. All I told him was that my totem was passed down generations and harnessed the spirits of the animal kingdom through the power of Anansi, but I don’t think that’s what he wanted to hear.”

“I’ll have Nate research myths about spears, I’m sure he’ll find something.” Sara pauses. “Are you going to—”

“I’ll be fine,” Amaya mutters, waving her off. “I just need a shower and a change of clothes.”

“Okay,” Sara says, with a frown. “But if you feel worse, let me know. I’m not sending you out in the field if you’re in serious condition.”

“I’m fine,” she repeats, walking towards the doorway. “Anything else you want to know?”

Sara opens her mouth, and then closes it, frowning. Then she shakes her head. “No, you’re good to go.”

. . .

When Amaya gets out of the shower, she half-expects, half-hopes that Mick’ll be outside of her door. He’s not, and it bothers her more than it used to. She decides to give him an hour before seeking him out, trying to ignore the fear that he’s avoiding her now. But every time she tries to pick up a book, thoughts of him flood her mind, disrupting her focus.

Was kissing him the wrong way to go? He seemed to be pretty into it at the time, but maybe something’s changed. Maybe it was a one time thing for him, or maybe it wasn’t what he wanted after all. He _was_ the one to let go first.

_He’s a thief,_ part of her whispers. _A criminal. He’s used to the cut-and-run. He doesn’t want to fall in love you, he just wants to take what he can and get away._ She tries to silence the voice. It reminds her too much of the person she was before she got on the Waverider, back when everything was a simple black and white.

_Okay,_ another voice says. _So Mick’s not the bad guy, necessarily. But he’s not like Rex. He’s not the settling-down type. He’s unpredictable every second. And you love it, but is it the best thing in the long run? You saw him back in the wild west, hanging back. He wanted to die. Maybe he still does._

_What power do you have to make him want to live?_

The thoughts are too much and Amaya snaps her book shut, tossing it across her room. She stands up, off her couch, and walks over to the door. She can’t sit around and think like this. At the very least, she needs a cup of tea. And if she runs into Mick on the galley or on the way, then so be it.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she finds Ray, practically inhaling a plate of cupcakes. As she fills up her kettle, he glances at her guiltily, his face smeared with bright pink frosting and crumbs. She tosses a napkin at him, and he brushes the debris from his cheeks.

“You’re okay!” he says, as she sets the kettle on the stove. “And . . . you’re still wearing Mick’s jacket.”

Amaya glances down, looking at the thing. She’d been debating whether or not to put it back on, but in the end, she’d thought: _Screw it. He gave it to me, and if he wants it back, he can always ask._ “Yeah.”

Ray nods, the way someone does when they’re pretending to understand something but actually have no clue what’s going on. “Right. He’s just . . . possessive when it comes to his things.”

Amaya briefly wonders if Mick counts her among them, as something that belongs to him (if a bit loosely). She shakes the idea out of her head, trying not to let it show. “Well, I guess he made an exception.”

Ray’s about to say something, when Nate walks in. His eyes bug out when he sees the empty wrappers on Ray’s plate. “Wait. There are cupcakes on this ship?”

“Well, there _were_ ,” Amaya mutters, glaring at Ray. Nate shrugs, crossing the room and opening the fridge. He skims the shelf, before stopping and turning to look at Amaya, as if he’d seen her for the first time.

“Is that Mick’s jacket?” he asks, not even bothering to close the fridge door as he gapes at her. Amaya rolls her eyes.

“Is that a problem?” she says, as the kettle lets out blood-curdling screetch. She removes it from the stove, sets the controls back to zero, and pours the steaming water into a mug with a bag of English Breakfast. 

Nate lets out a cough. “Ahem. Uh, no. No, I just didn’t know you and he were—oh, _that’s_ why you—that’s fine, I just didn’t realize he was your—”

“You want to stop before you talk yourself into a corner?” Amaya says, rolling her eyes. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“Is there something going on with you and Mick?” Ray blurts. “I mean, you’ve been hanging out with him all the time, he was super freaked out when Merlyn hurt you, hell, _he gave you his jacket_ —”

“I enjoy spending time with Mick,” Amaya says, stirring her tea. “Anything beyond that fact is really none of your business, is it?” And before they can respond, she simply walks out of the galley and over to Mick’s room and knocks, waiting be damned.

It takes nearly a minute, but the door opens. On the other side is Mick, both of his wrists in splints. He smells like beer and smoke, but that’s nothing new. He looks her up and down slowly, his eyes focusing particularly on his jacket.

“Gideon fix you up?” he says softly, and Amaya knows somehow that it’s his version of _I was worried, are you alright?_

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m good. You?”

He shrugs, holding up his arms. “The same, mostly.”

“So . . .” Amaya starts, bouncing on the balls of her feet. 

“So?” he asks.

“Beauty and the Beast?” she asks, offering a small smile. For a second, he glances up, as if he’s conferring with the ceiling. Then he glances back at her, his eyes narrow. He’s debating something with himself, but she has no idea what. Then he gives her a toothy grin.

“Sure,” he says, holding the door open for her. Then he closes it, she sets down her tea, and they fall back on the couch, like nothing ever happened. Amaya relaxes slightly, letting herself rest on Mick’s chest as Gideon starts the movie. His arm comes around her, resting at her waist, and she can’t help but smile at the casual touch. 

As the movie goes on, Amaya decides that she likes Belle more than Snow White, especially because of her intelligence and spirit, although she concedes that both are kind. There’s an obvious parallel to be made between Mick and the Beast, even if Amaya doesn’t say it. As she watches the fallen prince struggle with learning to be kind to Belle and fall in love with her, she wonders if Mick’s changing too, becoming more of a hero even as she turns into . . . well, something else.

Mick claims his favorite character is Lumiere (for obvious reasons). He grins all the way through “Be Our Guest” and the castle fight scene. He also points out Cogsworth the clock, claiming it’s an accurate depiction of their last captain, Rip. But as much as he seemed to enjoy the movie, when it’s over, Mick lets out a sigh.

“Something wrong?” Amaya murmurs. 

“It’s just . . . that spell, the one Belle broke,” Mick starts. “Do you think it was destiny or chance that she did? What if she never met the Beast? Or what if she did but never learned to love him?”

“You’re asking if I believe in fate,” Amaya says, glancing up at him. He nods, reluctantly. “I couldn’t say, to be honest. But I want to believe that things happen for a reason. I don’t like to depend on accidents and coincidences.”

“What about . . .” He takes a deep breath. “What about us?”

Amaya’s chest tightens. “Is there an us? It wasn’t exactly clear.”

“I want there to be,” he whispers softly.

“So do I,” she says, turning so she leans over him. “And I don’t think this is an accident, or a mistake.” 

He starts to talk again, but she silences him, leaning forward to press her lips against his. His arms wrap around her, brushing back her hair and stroking the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. Her tongue meets his, and it’s all so good she could laugh, but she doesn’t because she doesn’t want it to stop. Her hands caress his shoulders, pulling him closer, gripping the back of his jacket for safety.

He leans down, kissing her collarbone, her neck, and then her lips again, smiling in spite of himself as the pressure increases. He flips her over, and before Amaya even realizes it, they’re sprawled out on the floor, but she doesn’t even care. All she can think about is how he tastes and the feeling of his fingers as they dance back over her arms before ripping the jacket off of her and grabbing her hands, how every part of him is pressed against her. She loses herself in his touch, rolling over again. This time she gets even fiercer, biting his lip, his skin, his ear. 

She’s drunk on the very taste of him and there’s no cure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: The original Star Wars trilogy, in honor of Carrie Fisher. May the force be with her, as well as those who knew and loved her.


End file.
